"Dearg Due" by T.Craig

Dearg Due

by T.Craig

I told you we should have stayed friends. I kept telling you we would be better as friends, that you weren’t my type.

But you had to persist. It’s too bad, because I did really like you. I remember the first day at the coffee shop — you came in for your regular nutmeg latte, one shot of espresso. Your regular drink, every regular morning in your regular charmed life. You had the world at your feet.

You were a business tycoon, vice president of your company. You had the good looks, the charm, the swagger. You turned heads of both men and women; you could have had anyone you wanted. Money to burn. A long and comfortable, if not luxurious, life ahead of you.

But no. You wouldn’t stop until you had me.

I was new in town. You held eye contact with an intensity that was both serious and tenacious. You weren’t one to give up until you got what you wanted.

“You’re not from around here,” you said.

“I’m new in town,” I replied, smiling, averting my gaze as I rang up the transaction and handed you your coffee.

I felt the gentle brush against my hand as you slipped your business card into my palm. Ochre lettering. Jack Ashford. Golden cursive for a golden boy.

With a winning smile and lingering gaze, you told me to call you. No asking. Just certainty.

I declined. You seemed nice. Charming. A real tycoon. I don’t go for good men. Call it a deep inner wound or simply my nature.

But there you were. Every morning. Same time, same latte. Same routine of charm and carefully measured excitement, trying to coax me into saying yes. The brush of a business card turned into the weight of your hands, bold now, confident.

Your touch raised gooseflesh along my arms, little sparks dancing at the back of my neck. Warm caramel and chocolate coiled low in my core. I let myself be swept into it — the hunger, the heat.

It started with an invitation to your apartment for coffee. Masculine, luxurious, dimly lit. Vivaldi crooned from a record player as candles burned low. When I crossed your threshold, it was my gesture of consent. To give in.

Dinner blurred into the sofa. The candles guttered as we edged closer, hands speaking their own language, fingers interlocking. Time slipped sideways as we drowned in each other, somehow finding our way to the bedroom.

As I straddled you, your moans deepened beneath me. Flesh met flesh. You were seeing me for who I really am.

You looked up into my eyes, drinking me in.

Then your expression faltered.

You felt it first — the chill beneath my skin, the scent beneath the perfume. Your eyes widened as my grey flesh loosened from perfect cheekbones, as something ancient surfaced. Where you once saw desire, there were hollow sockets writhing with pale movement.

Your scream split the air, terror replacing pleasure in an instant.

I felt your muscles tense beneath me as you tried to push away from my hunger. Sweat mingled with the sweet rot of decay as I leaned down and stole a final kiss. You reached your climax — the seed of life — and I reached mine, drawing in the nectar of death that fed me.

You tried to wrench free, but your strength drained, your life force unraveling in my grasp. I saw the tears in your eyes as regret dawned too late.

I tried to tell you. You weren’t my type. I tried to stay friends.

But once you pursued me, it was game, set, match — a curse as old as time.

I have worn many names over the centuries. Succubus. Vampire. Witch. Dearg Due.

What remains the same is the cycle.

Every era, I serve a drink.

Every era, I choose a mate.

I consume their essence. They see my true form only once our union is complete.

Once I feed, I return to the earth for decades.

Then I rise again.

Forever the new girl in town.

Forever seeking to feed.